My Secret Goal

When I was about 13, I realized that I had a secret I could never share with anyone. I desperately wanted to tell everyone my secret. I didn’t want to live a lie. But I knew that if I did I risked being ostracized. I tried sharing my secret with my mother once and it didn’t go well. After that I knew I would always have to keep my secret to myself and pretend to be somebody else.

It was time for me to start thinking about my “vocational rehabilitation goal.” In other words, soon I would need to determine what I wanted to be once I graduated from the state boarding school for crippled children, which I called the Sam Houston Institute of Technology (SHIT).

I knew exactly what I wanted to be. I wanted to be poet. I loved everything about the poet lifestyle. They stayed up late and slept late. No curfew and reveille like at SHIT. Poets never wore ties. They wrote about how misunderstood they are. It was the perpetual lifestyle of a brooding teen. It was beautiful.

Poets were who they were and screw you if you didn’t like it. Poets never kissed anyone’s ass. But as I got a bit older, I realized that being a poet was not a prudent vocational rehabilitation goal. The one thing that sucked about being a poet was that they were always broke-ass. I knew if I was going to survive in the world beyond SHIT, I’d need lots of money. Every time I had to put on my shoes, do laundry or take a crap, I’d have to pay somebody to help me. So I adjusted my secret vocational rehabilitation goal from being a poet to being a rich poet. That wouldn’t be too hard for me. I wrote so much kick-ass poetry. I could easily crank out a book every month or so and sell about a million copies.

I also knew if I wanted the state to pay for my college education I could never tell my vocational rehabilitation counselor of my secret vocational rehabilitation goal. If I wanted the state to pay, I would have to aspire to be something “employable,” like a social worker. And then I could get a job as a vocational rehabilitation counselor, telling cripples they had to become social workers.

My mother was also asking me a lot about my vocational rehabilitation goal. So I finally told her straight up one day that I wanted to be a poet. She said, “But honey----.” And that’s all I remember her saying. But she probably said something like, “But honey, maybe you should do something practical for a living and write poetry as a hobby.” One day my mother proudly announced that she had a great idea for how I could pursue my dream of writing poetry while still making a living. “Maybe you could work for a greeting card company, like Hallmark!” I bet they pay fabulous money!” Greeting card poetry? Never had I been more misunderstood.

So I never spoke of my secret vocational rehabilitation goal again. But by the time college rolled around, I no longer wanted to be a poet. I discovered a higher calling. I had a new secret vocational rehabilitation goal that dared not speak its name: stand-up comedian.

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Retractions

I should have known I’d get in trouble when I told the following joke:

Q: Why did the Siamese twins move to England?

A: So the other one could drive.

One morning shortly thereafter, I was home and my phone rang. It was our Turkish doorman calling from the lobby of our building. ”Good morning,” he chirped. “There are 50 Siamese twins here to see you. They are very angry. Should I send them up?"

“No! Tell them to get lost,” I said. But the twins wouldn’t leave and as soon as they began chanting for me to come down, I knew I couldn’t ignore them. It’s impossible to ignore a pack of Siamese twins chanting your name. If you don’t believe me, try it sometime.

So I went down to the lobby to meet them. There weren’t 50 of them. There were only six, or 12, depending on how you slice it. But in defense of my Turkish doorman, any group of two or more sets of Siamese twins does look like an army.

Their twin leaders wore guerilla berets. "We are the CTLF: the Conjoined Twins Liberation Front,” said the one on the left. ”And we don’t like that joke you told about us.”

A couple of women spoke up. “First of all, we want to be referred to as conjoined. We are not Siamese. We are not all from Siam. There isn’t even any such place anymore!”

The leader on the right spoke. “That’s another pervasive stereotype we’re here to debunk. People think all conjoined twins are Asian.”

Another twin next to the leader twins spoke. ”And people think because we’re twins our names always rhyme! But that’s B.S, isn’t it Pete?” he said to his twin. And his twin replied, ”It sure is, Demetrius.”

The leader on the left spoke again. “Don’t get us wrong. We got nuthin’ against jokes. We like to laugh as much as anybody. Ha ha ha. But we object to hearing the same old stale jokes over and over. If you’re gonna make a joke about us, at least come up with something new.”

I understood their pain. Whenever someone sees me in my wheelchair and says, “You better slow down before you get a speeding ticket,” I wish to hell I had a marching band hidden behind the nearest bush. I’d cue the band to march out blaring a raucous tune while encircling the joke perpetrator. And then I’d throw confetti in the air and say, “Congratulations! You are the one millionth person to tell me that joke!”

So I hereby issue this retraction: conjoined twin are not Siamese. And I will never make fun of them again.

But even after all that, I still didn’t learn my lesson. Because I turned around and made the following wisecrack:

“I’ve heard some people refer to cripples like me as vegetables. What would they call a guy in a coma? A mineral?”

It wasn’t long before I received a tersely-worded letter from the Comatose Anti-Defamation League (CADL). Who knew there was such an organization? The letter said, “We object strongly to your wisecrack about the 'guy in the coma.’ We believe in using people-first languages, which places the person ahead of the condition. Thus, when referring to someone in a comatose state, you should use the term Person Who Happens to be in a Coma. People Who Happen to be in a Coma are not defined by our comatose state. It is only a small part of who we are. First and foremost we are mothers, fathers, husbands, wives. We are people. Another acceptable term to use when referring to someone in a comatose state is 'differently conscious’”

The letter went on to say, “In regards to your wisecrack, it must first be noted that the CADL is not anti-humor. People Who Happen to be in a Coma enjoy a good laugh as much as anyone. However, when making fun of the differently-conscious, be respectful enough to come up with something original and not subject us to the same jokes we have heard a thousand times.”

Wow! I never knew People Who Happen to be in Comas are so touchy. So here’s my second retraction: People Who Happen to be in Comas are people, too. And I will never make fun of them again, either.

"Spinsters" and "Confirmed Bachelors"

I’m surprised they let Mrs. McDonald teach us crippled children at the Chicago Public elementary school for cripples. I’m surprised no parents started a petition drive to get rid of her. Surely someone must have suspected her of being a “spinster.” Where I come from, that’s what they called old lesbians in the 1960s. “Spinsters.” A young lesbian was a tomboy. I’m not sure where one crossed the line from one to the other. I think a tomboy officially became a “spinster” when it became clear she was never going to grow out of it.

“Spinsters.” And the way the adults put the word in quotes when spoken was by casting down eyebrows or whispering. Wink wink. A known “spinster” had a hard time getting a job as a teacher back then, let alone a job teaching crippled children. Children, after all, are our most vulnerable citizens and crippled children are the most vulnerable of the most vulnerable.

Mrs. Mc Donald was the first women I ever saw in person who seemed like she just might be one of those “spinster” types. First off, she had a “spinster” haircut: short, straight, no nonsense. And she never changed her hairdo. But here was the biggest flashing arrow of all: she taught shop!

“This tool is called an awl,” Mrs. McDonald said to the crippled boys in shop class. “Everybody say it with me. Aaaaawwwwwwwwllll.”

But there were also two reasons why people might have given Mrs. McDonald the benefit of the doubt about being a “spinster.” One, she also taught home economics to the crippled girls. This meant she wasn’t completely butch. She hadn’t completely asphyxiated her feminine side. So maybe she wasn’t a “spinster.” Maybe she was just “versatile.”

And the other reason people might have given Mrs. McDonald the benefit of the doubt was that she made frequent mention of a Mr. McDonald. I didn’t know if there ever was an actual confirmed sighting of this Mr. McDonald. But I did know in my seventh-grade mind that if there really was a Mr. McDonald, he had to be the most happily-married SOB ever. He had a wife who could change his tire and cook him a soufflé. And of course that necessarily meant that she was also a wildcat in bed.

As far as I could tell there were no men teaching at the cripple school who could be suspected of being a “confirmed bachelor.” That was the polite word for the male equivalent of a “spinster.” I don’t think a “confirmed bachelor” could have gotten away with teaching both home ec and shop like Mrs. Mc Donald did. Because if he behaved in a manner that left little doubt that he was a “confirmed bachelor,” they would never have let him teach shop. But if he didn’t behave in a manner that left little doubt that he was a “confirmed bachelor,” they never would have let him teach home ec. Even today on those TV shows where a guy helps a bride plan her wedding or pick out the perfect gown, the guy seems to be required to behave in a manner that leaves little doubt that he is a “confirmed bachelor.” But he’s never flaming. He behaves in a manner that leaves little doubt that he is a “confirmed bachelor” just enough to give him the necessary street cred to host the show. So even if a guy is the most talented wedding planner or gown picker-outer or homemaker that ever lived, he won’t get far if he acts like a Marine drill sergeant. You just can’t bust into a home ec classroom and blurt, “All right listen up! Today we’re gonna make snickerdoodles! Now look alive!”

Full Liberation

I made it. I’m on the list. I should be ecstatic.

There it is. Muscular dystrophy. That’s me. I’m smack in the middle of the list of conditions that now make one eligible to legally receive medical marijuana in Illinois. I’m right there among a bunch of other lucky bustards who have conditions like arachnoiditis, Tarlov cysts, hydromyelia, syringomyelia or cachexia aka wasting syndrome.

The law took effect January 1. For some cripples on that list, this means the moment of complete liberation has finally arrived. All the years of political struggle have finally have paid off with the ultimate legislative victory. For some cripples I know, all they want is a warm place to take their daily dump and the right to get high in peace. Of course I know plenty of people like that who aren’t crippled, too. Who doesn’t?

 For those cripples, utopia is finally here. And all you need to enter is a doctor’s prescription. And this utopia is a much sweeter place when only cripples can get in and only certain cripples at that.  If this was a state like Colorado where any old slob can waltz in and buy pot, it would take almost all the fun out it because that would take away the revenge factor. Cripples on the medical marijuana VIP list can use the new law to get even with all the punks who used to call them spaz. The VIP cripples can throw a Bygones-be-Bygones party and invite all the punks who used to call them spaz. Then the VIP cripples can gleefully blow smoke in the faces of the punks and say, “Don’t you wish you were a spaz now, mofo?”

There’s another great reason I should sign up right away. The law allows cripples who qualify for medicinal pot to select a “designated caregiver” to assist in administering their pot. This would enable me to finally provide some upward mobility for the members of my pit crew. Whoever plays their cards right gets promoted by me to the position of designated caregiver. There’s no extra pay but there’s a definite fringe benefit. Technically, the designated caregiver isn’t allowed to partake of my stash but hey, if I happen to turn my back for a few minutes---.

Rahnee’s on the list, too. Rheumatoid arthritis. That’s her. We should both sign up right now. We could take our legal pot and say fuck it all and go spend the rest of our lives someplace where it’s always warm and comfortable, like our couch.

There’s no good reason why I shouldn’t sign up. So why haven’t I? Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe I’m one of those greedy, grabby, entitled cripples who’s never satisfied. You let them get high with impunity and they still want more. They still insist on being “full participants in society” and blah blah blah.

I should just declare victory, take my pot and go home. Full liberation is just a prescription away.

Helen Keller Died for Our Sins

I admire Helen Keller for a lot of reasons.  First of all, no other cripple has an entire genre of jokes dedicated them. Yeah sure, some Helen Keller jokes are stale and stupid. But some are pretty funny. But that’s not the point. I wish I was famous enough to have a genre of jokes about me. (How many Smart Ass Cripples does it take to screw in a light bulb?) I wouldn’t care how damn stupid the jokes were. It would be a real kick just to figure that prominently in the public discourse.

Helen Keller is probably the most famous cripple who ever lived. She’s so famous there should be a Helen Keller commemorative, collectible bobblehead doll. That’s another way to measure your cultural prominence. You know you’ve really arrived when the bobblehead people make a doll out of you. It’s the highest civilian honor. So if the bobblehead people were going to make a bobblehead doll of the most famous cripple, they’d probably choose Helen Keller. Ray Chares would deserve serious consideration as would the two Stevies, Wonder and Hawking. But if there was a ballot initiative asking voters which famous cripple should have a commemorative bobblehead doll issued in their honor, I bet Helen Keller would win.

Helen Keller was the crippled Jackie Robinson in that she was the first cripple to step up to the plate, so to speak.  When people made ignorant, crude, boorish comments to Jackie Robinson, he just had to grin and bear it. “Thank you, sir. May I have another?” I don’t know how he took it. I know I sure as hell couldn’t have done that. The minute somebody called me the “n” word, I would have beat them to a pulp with my baseball bat.

I bet people made a lot of ignorant comments to Helen Keller, like “Oh you’re such an inspiration” or “I so admire your courage.” But no matter what, she had to shrug it off. She couldn’t fight back. Again, it’s a good thing it wasn’t me. After hearing that about four or five times, I’d have been ready to kick the next person who said it square in the balls.

Now imagine how different things would be if Helen Keller lost her cool and kicked somebody in the balls. But she couldn’t so much as emit a sarcastic huff. Exercising such superhuman restraint must have taken a heavy toll on her.

 Helen Keller took that bullet for future generations of cripples. She bore that burden so we wouldn’t have to.  So now I can make a smart ass retort without worrying about screwing things up for other cripples. Because no matter how much I come off as a bitter little caustic wisenheimer, there’s always the stoic, noble image of Helen Keller as a counterbalance. And so cripples receive the benefit of the doubt that maybe they’re not all like me.

Thus, I am free to indulge in smart assery. And I owe it all to Helen Keller.


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Cripple Cash

Oh hell! Here it is. I knew this day was coming.

They launched a new lottery here in Illinois called Veteran’s Cash. It’s $2 a ticket and all proceeds “benefit Illinois veterans organizations.” It was unveiled with great fanfare. The governor flew around the state and held press conferences.

But I feel a sense of foreboding. Because maybe this is the pilot project that will develop into the new system of funding human services in the brave new world. You know how it works. The money generated by lotteries always has to go to support something “good.” That’s how we rationalize gambling. The Illinois lottery funds “education.” So if you’re pissing away your paycheck, it’s okay because you’re investing in our children, who are the future leaders of this great nation.

So you’d think that by now there would be so much education money that the daily school lunch would be steak tartare and every cafeteria would have a soft drink sommelier. But noooooooo! Some school districts are forced to stretch meager resources by using chalk as both a writing implement and a sautéed side dish for lunch.

That’s because with lottery bucks covering education, the state can take bucks that would have gone to education and spend them elsewhere. So the same thing will happen to the poor veterans. With their own lottery pumping in cash, the state will probably divert away the funds currently in the vet line item.

And soon after that there may be a whole bunch of competing lotteries funding the wide variety of human services line items. How about Cripple Cash? By pissing away your paycheck, you’re paying the wages of people who help cripples like me get our asses out of bed. And then the government can take all the tax money cripples eat up and give it to those who need it most. The rich

This sort of funding scheme ought to satisfy even the libertarians, who firmly believe that no government should be able to force its citizens to be decent human beings against their will. When someone buys a cripple cash lottery ticket, they are yielding their hard-earned money to the public treasury voluntarily! So the libertarians can shut the fuck up!

But this scheme scares me because it’s so cutthroat. When it comes to persuading citizens to piss away their paychecks on us, cripples will face stiff competition from the likes of abused and neglected children or old people who need new hips. They will also have their own lotteries.  The competition will all devolve into a titanic p.r. battle of poster children for each needy line item—a grotesque telethon.

If we must find new, non-coercive, revenue streams to fund the things cripples need, I propose a Kardashian  tax.  I mean, if somebody buys a skirt or something just because the Kardashians put their name on it, they deserve to pay extra. Except I wouldn’t want to link this tax to any one specific celebrity, because what happens when their designer stuff is inevitably swept into the discount bin of history?  Let’s just make it a general Vacuous Celebrity Items sales tax. That way we can slap this tax on everything from perfume to basketball shoes. That ought to bring in billions! All proceeds support cripples. 

 But what I want most of all is to put dibs on the pot concession. Make pot legal, hang a big fat sales tax on it and pass the money on to the cripples. That ought to set us up quite well for a good long time. It’s a cash stream that will never run dry. There will always be potheads. You can count on that.

The Damage I Caused as a Drunken Santa

I played Santa Claus once in my life.  I was pretty drunk and I regret it. I worry to this day about the damage I may have caused.

It was a Christmas party in the basement of my old apartment building and a mom was there with her four-month-old baby. And the mom set that baby on my lap.  So I was that child’s first Santa. And I still remember how,after one look at me, the placid expression on that infant’s face twisted into a look of deep bewilderment verging on horror. The mother whisked her baby away but I fear the damage was already done.

Because you know what the experts say. They say children are profoundly affected by things that happen to them at times they can’t even remember, like in  the first few years after they exit the womb or even while they are still in the womb. So you have to be real careful what you expose a child or fetus to because it’s easy to screw them up good without you or them even knowing it.  That’s a pretty freaky thing to consider. I don’t remember whether that baby on my lap was a boy or girl.  But I feel remorse when I walk a mile in that baby’s diapers. I think about how I would have felt as a baby seeing a drunken me dressed like Santa Claus looming above. Surely that left a scar. A baby's tiny subconscious isn't developed enough to process existential terror.

But that was a long time ago and we as a society didn’t know what we know now. Hell. I remember the days when pregnant woman got drunk on their asses. We now know that can lead to Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, which can cause brain damage, facial malformations, learning disabilities and other brutal stuff like that. But how much do we still not know? I mean, not long ago I saw a pregnant woman eating a Twinkie and I said to myself, “What the fuck!” I bet soon scientists will discover a horrible thing called Fetal Twinkie Syndrome. And what about when newborns sleep in cribs in the same bedroom where the parents are getting it on? It may seem harmless, but the baby’s tiny subconscious absorbs it all.

Who knows what we still don’t know? So you can’t be too careful.

I often think about that baby on my Santa Claus lap. I think about him/her whenever a former child star breaks into a rage and punches out a mall cop. I think about him/her when Rahnee watches that depressing TV show about hoarders.  And I’m convinced that’s what became of the infant I subliminally traumatized. I wish I could take it all back. But like I said, I didn’t know better. And I was drunk.